And Yet You Can
by dismaynight
Summary: "You don't understand, and yet you can..." A reflective short story about the evils of tedium, and the heart of an army doctor. / non-slash Sherlock/John


_This world, I am afraid, is designed for crashing bores.  
>I am not one, I am not one.<br>You don't understand, you don't understand, and yet you can  
><em>_take me in your arms and love me, love me, and love me._

-Morrissey, "The World is Full of Crashing Bores"

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><p>This doesn't suit him, he thinks. This waiting around, making up puzzles in his head, thinking of the best possible way to hide severed fingers thing. He hates the waiting, because he's not waiting for anything in particular, just… <em>something<em>. He hates making puzzles, because the thing about making a puzzle is that you already know how to solve it when all is said and done. He hates thinking about severed fingers - just because.

Mostly what he hates about this certain period of his life is that there's nothing of substance to think about, but he can't just turn off his brain, and the curse of being Sherlock Holmes is that his brain must keep thinking.

So he picks up the violin again. He had played from kindergarten to college, but once his detective work took off, he only used it for zen-filled concentration. He decides now, though, in this dry patch of work, to tackle Tchaikovsky and Mozart and Bartok, to maybe compose a medley for himself. After weeks of this, he half-feels that he's wasted his time, and half-feels that he hasn't done enough. He tries to keep going, to keep mastering the concertos. He tries to tuck the violin under his chin as soon as he wakes, to breathe in the rosin as it puffs out from his exertion, watch his fingers pound into the fingerboard, gingerly grips the neck with one hand, expertly cradles the frog with the other.

It doesn't do it for him. It's only succeeding in stimulating his thought process and furthering the need for something to use it for. He wonders if other violinists experience this, or if they actually focus all of their thinking into the playing. Sherlock tries this too - tries to put all of his thinking towards the violin and the music - and after an hour, all he's left with is a crippling disappointment and a bow with no hair left.

He figures maybe he should just make a problem for himself. So he decides to hack into Lestrade's phone and figure out a way to send a text to thirty numbers that he doesn't know but are all in the same room (like in a press conference or something of the like.) He succeeds after a few days, but Lestrade quickly figures out who's been running off with his phone and threatens Sherlock with a fine he can't pay (granted that Mycroft constantly offers Sherlock piles of money, but he, of course, refuses any such trash from the likes of his brother.) He finds that he can't create problems for himself without doing some sort of damage to his surroundings.

Next he does some research. Googles substances that can preoccupy the brain, then scratches that and looks up substances that enhance brainpower (figuring maybe with more of his mind available that he can figure out something to do with himself.) Ignores nicotine; his cigarette fix is over (too pricey these days,) and the patches aren't enough. Finds cocaine. Looks up all side effects, all different uses, all the best schedules to follow on using it, all the best ways to obtain it.

He obtains it via a small job Lestrade has him do: finding certain drug dealers, proving that they are indeed doing illegal things, and bringing them in. He takes their cocaine and tools as "evidence" without telling anyone that he did, but no worries, he knows how to keep himself safe when he thinks to. And Sherlock does cocaine. And he likes it. So he stashes it, uses it as correctly as possible.

It helps but he's still bored. He's still waiting for who-knows-what. So he begins to loathe the drug and, though he doesn't forget about it, lets it sit in its hiding place until he absolutely needs it.

On Mycroft's suggestion, he goes up to the hospital and manipulates Molly Hooper into helping him with biological experiments. He thinks that maybe learning is a better pastime for him, so he studies different bodies and how they respond to his treatments. He memorizes different mixes of certain muds and dirts. He trains his eyes to the microscope. He fills his head with useful things.

And he finds that it all helps, much more than the violin, than the cocaine. He's still waiting, but he's able to forget about the waiting a little more.

The work picks up. Criminals are clever again, there's a serial killer or two. He chases, he gets chased, he gets skimmed by a bullet and flips over several cars. He's living. He goes home at the end of the day, though, and just sits. Sometimes stares, sometimes replays a case in his head, start to finish. He sits in the chair, facing the door, and sometimes he watches it, expecting something but not knowing what.

Mrs. Hudson notices - or rather, has been noticing for quite some time. She's fed up. She brings him tea and a biscuit, sits on the edge of the chair across from him, and tells him to consider getting a friend or a girlfriend ("Or - or a boyfriend, dearie, whatever works for you!") And then, without waiting for his inevitable negation, leaves in a flutter. Sherlock is left dumbfounded that he's considering her suggestion.

It's all silly, really. He doesn't do relationships of any kind. He doesn't even look at Mycroft as a brother, but more as an unfortunate extra appendage, like a third big toe: makes shoes hard to wear, and does weird things to your balance, but only when you stop to think about it. Girlfriends, boyfriends, _no_ - the only affection he allows is the innocent kind from Mrs. Hudson, and _only_ from Mrs. Hudson. So that's out. Friends are dangerous, hardly ever loyal, rarely understanding or appreciative of his work.

By chance, Mike Stamford visits him at the hospital one day. Mike makes the comment that it must be hard for Sherlock to afford a flat by himself, considering he rejects most of his family fortune. As if by intuition, Mike suggests that he'd do well to have a flat mate. Sherlock comments that he's much too difficult - it'd be hard to find someone willing to put up with him.

That night, the feeling of waiting, of anticipation, for something he doesn't understand - it's overwhelming. He picks up a needle, wonders if the cocaine would get rid of that feeling, maybe replace it. Decides it would be a worthy experiment. The waiting simply doesn't suit him and he's tired. He conducts his experiment, then waits for the effects to wear off before he goes to feign sleep.

Mike comes back the next day with a sly expression. There's a man with him, a retired army doctor from the looks of him. He watches Sherlock with a keen eye and an expression of wonder. The man is fascinated by him. Sherlock does not disappoint. In fact, Sherlock goes beyond his own expectations - he decides to have a flat mate in John Watson.

By the end of the day he's sure of it: John will be no typical friend. He accepts the mess that is 221B, he agrees to assist him in a case, he's able to handle dead bodies and morbid situations, he tells Sherlock he is amazing and extraordinary versus the "piss off" that he's used to, he still returns to the flat - still accepts Sherlock - though he had been warned by Sally Donovan and bribed by his own brother, and doesn't even get fed up with having to travel halfway across London just to send a text for him. He loves the danger, he's loyal, and, though he doesn't seem to _entirely_ understand Sherlock, he still appreciates everything that he is.

If he were the sentimental type and believed in miracles, he would definitely say that _this_ is a miracle.

He didn't ask for John Watson, but here he is. Sherlock can't complain. He fills in the gaps for Sherlock that he hadn't been able to fill by himself. He saves Sherlock time, helps him think, helps him work, even provides smiles and laughter and brightens things up considerably. And Sherlock can't quite put him into words.

After a week or two, Sherlock realizes something. He'd forgotten entirely about that feeling. After John saves Sherlock from himself with a bullet, saves Sarah with a crack move, endures the excruciating and suspenseful verbal breakdown with Moriarty and then saves them both from it, Sherlock finds that John has also saved him a fourth time, even though it's from something small, without even knowing it. And just in time, too - the feeling certainly just hadn't suited him.

There may still be boredom sometimes.

But Sherlock is no longer waiting.

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><p><strong>AN**: Hope you guys liked it. I'm fairly proud of this one. I will say, I spent the most time trying to come up with a title! So I hope it works o.o  
><strong>AN 2**: And thank you so much to **skeletonpsalms91 **("Other Side of Rain") for being my beta reader, and for suffering through the mess that was me during the title-hunt, and so on. She's an amazing writer; I hope anyone who reads this will go enjoy her Sherlock fic as well :)


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